


in your arms

by M0stlyVoid



Series: Kinktober 2020 [3]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Aftercare, BDSM, Bruises, Dom Draco Malfoy, Dom/sub, Flogging, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Safeword Use, Sub Harry Potter, just a hint of a foot fetish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-03
Updated: 2020-10-03
Packaged: 2021-03-08 01:41:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26797507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/M0stlyVoid/pseuds/M0stlyVoid
Summary: If you had told Draco four months ago that he'd be in something approaching an exclusive relationship with Harry Potter, he'd have laughed in your face before rigging you up for a fitting punishment for your cheek.Now, all he can think about is what he can do to keep Harry feeling happy and safe.We all get it wrong sometimes, though.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Series: Kinktober 2020 [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1948741
Comments: 41
Kudos: 438





	in your arms

**Author's Note:**

> the october 3 prompt for kinktober 2020 is— _Dom/sub with aftercare._
> 
> thanks to [bella](https://archiveofourown.org/users/onereader/pseuds/shealwaysreads) for the extra help and guidance.

Bending slightly, Draco slips one finger under the bindings around Harry’s wrists, one after the other, checking to make sure they’re secure enough to not rub too much when he pulls, but not so tight as to cause circulation issues. He slowly runs his hands up Harry’s arms, digging in just enough with his neatly-manicured nails to score red lines in his wake. Harry shivers, but otherwise doesn’t move, and Draco rewards him with a gentle kiss at the base of his neck.

He digs his fingers into the strong muscles of Harry’s back as he makes his way down, pausing to massage the firm globes of his arse, down over his thick thighs and defined calves, which are straining with Harry’s effort to keep himself steady and still, until Draco reaches his ankles, encased in thick cuffs of buttery-soft leather, and performs the same check.

Draco brushes his fingers over the high arches of Harry’s feet and smiles as Harry lets out a thin whine, unable to keep himself silent any longer. Harry’s always had sensitive feet, but it was Draco who introduced him to how that sensitivity might be manipulated for pleasure.

Draco’s introduced him to many things, ever since Harry lead a raid on a fetish club suspected of dealing illegal potions out of their back room and insisted that Draco expand his consultancy role to include actually _attending the raid,_ in order to inspect the brewing facilities Harry suspected were actually on site.

Harry had been right; as much as Draco’s childhood self would kick and scream to admit it, Harry’s got a keen eye and finely-honed instincts, and the DMLE will lose a fine field Auror when he’s inevitably promoted to Head Auror. There had been a hidden room behind heavy warding at the back of the building, and Draco had been able to identify several key clues that eventually lead them to the import businesses supplying the illegal ingredients to the club’s owners.

He’d _also_ identified the wide-eyed look of fear-hunger-desire in Harry’s eyes as they made their way through the front of the club and he took in the St Andrews Crosses and low leather couches, and he’d probably been the only one on the team to note the rising flush on Harry’s neck and the way he had to keep adjusting the front of his robes as they wound through the warren of private back rooms and Harry got glimpses in through the observation windows at what was going on.

Draco’s observant. He always has been; had to be, as a child working to live up to first his father’s, and then the Dark Lord’s expectations, and now it serves him both professionally, as the UK’s premier Potions developer, and...recreationally.

Not that he’s _recreating_ with anyone besides Harry, these days. Hasn’t for almost three months, as a matter of fact; Draco thinks they’re probably due a bit of a conversation sometime soon, just to put in words what he suspects they’re both thinking and feeling.

Merlin. Draco Malfoy, in an _exclusive relationship,_ and with Harry Potter of all people. He can’t wait to tell his father; he’ll wait until a particularly boring dinner to drop this news, he thinks, and see how long he can get Lucius ranting and frothing at the mouth and threatening disownment until Mother finally calms him down.

Not that Lucius has the power to disown Draco anymore, or do anything at all with their family holdings beyond spending his allowance. Never let it be said that Draco isn’t petty when it suits him to be.

Now, though, it doesn’t suit, and so he bites lightly at Harry’s thigh, letting him get away with his slip with just a warning, and stands, scoring Harry’s thighs with more stinging red lines as he does.

“Are you warm enough?” he asks, dropping his voice just a bit, just enough to make Harry stiffen and straighten his spine, as best as he can while half-bent over an angled table, that is. Draco takes a minute to admire his tanned, smooth skin, running a hand proprietarily over Harry’s flank and landing a soft slap to watch the muscles ripple.

Harry barely flinches. “Yes, Sir,” he says, speaking softly but clearly—Draco insists on diction, both for personal preference and safety, and Harry has worked very hard to keep his voice clear and audible when they play.

Sometimes, Draco has to pause what he’s doing, when they’re together this way, and take a moment to take in just how _lucky_ he is. Harry’s trust in him is absolute, and Draco does his best to prove himself worthy of it every time; tries to prove it every _day,_ in fact, even when they aren’t playing, even when they’re just living their lives and going to dinner and coffee and on walks and Harry’s tackling him into bed with a laugh and taking him apart with those strong, callused hands.

“Good,” Draco says, sliding his palm up Harry’s spine. “Now, do you want to tell me why you asked me to meet you in here today? You may speak.”

Harry stays silent, but his shoulders draw together just a bit.

“Did something happen at work?” Draco presses, gesturing with the hand that’s not stroking over Harry’s back to Summon his tool box over. “Or—something at lunch, perhaps? You saw your cousin today, did you not? Did it not go well?”

Harry tenses further, but then relaxes, and Draco knows he’s got it.

“That’s alright,” he says, dancing his fingers over the toys before he selects the flogger and sends the box back to a corner with a sharp nod. “You don’t have to tell me everything now. We can talk about it after, if you like. I do need to know, though; do you feel like you did something wrong? I need you to answer me with words, Harry.”

There’s a tense silence, but then Harry nods slowly. “Yes, Sir,” he says softly, and Draco frowns.

He won’t ask now, he just said he wouldn’t push Harry until they’re finished, but—well. Harry doesn’t talk about the Dursleys, or his childhood; not to anyone, as far as Draco knows. Not even the Grangers know the whole story. Draco isn’t sure why Harry forces himself to these bi-annual lunches with his horrible cousin, only that Harry had been quiet and withdrawn last night when he mentioned it, and he hadn’t Owled Draco all afternoon today, and now—this.

Draco very much doubts Harry did anything wrong, but they can discuss that later. For now, this is what Harry needs, and Draco is happy to give it to him.

He takes a step back and removes his hand from Harry’s body completely. Standing just too far away for Harry to feel him, he watches Harry start to shiver and shift on his feet—just long enough so that when Draco lays his hand back on the small of Harry’s back, goosebumps erupt.

He trails the tresses of the flogger over Harry’s thighs, flicking them between his legs and directing one fell to tap at his balls. Harry turns his head from side to side, but otherwise remains still.

“Good, darling,” Draco praises, stepping back again and bringing the flogger down softly over Harry’s shoulders, not enough to do more than barely sting. “You’re doing so well. You’ll make up for whatever happened, won’t you?”

“Yes, Sir,” Harry breathes out, and the tension flees from his torso as he pushes himself further onto the table, arching his back just a bit, not enough for Draco to really call him on it, but enough that his eyes are drawn to Harry’s arse—just as Harry intended. Little tease.

“Good,” Draco says again, flicking the tresses up and down Harry’s legs. “We’ll start with ten, then. I want you to stay quiet, Harry, as quiet as you can—you don’t have to count, but I don’t want you to make any other sounds, either. Can you do that for me? You may answer.”

“Yes, Sir,” Harry says, nearly inaudible now as he presses his face into the table.

Draco lets his eyes run over Harry’s perfect, unblemished skin. _Not for long,_ he thinks, feeling himself start to harden in the loose joggers he prefers for scening and bringing the flogger down over the meat of Harry’s arse.

The sound is loud in the quiet room, but Harry doesn’t move, doesn’t so much as hiss through his teeth. Draco nods, traces the tresses over the red marks, and hits him again.

He starts off light—he always does, to gauge Harry’s reactions and his pain tolerance that day along with his own emotional response—but as his internal count ticks over to ten, he’s hitting harder and harder.

Harry may as well be made of stone—he’s tensed up again after the last blow, and Draco switches the flogger between his hands as he rolls his shoulders and thinks.

“Ten more, I think,” he says, waiting for a moment before he starts again, this time putting more force behind each strike. “You know, Harry, if you’re going to stand there stubbornly, maybe I should leave you alone in here for a while.” _Three, four,_ and now a break, and the welts are starting to deepen, starting to turn into marks that will need to be spelled away if Harry wants to sit comfortably tomorrow. He might not want to. “I don’t think you’d like that very much, though—it’s warm in here now, but you know that when you’re by yourself and still, it gets colder and colder the more you think about the fact that you’re alone.” _Six,_ and Harry’s shoulders shift and drop just a bit, and his breathing is speeding up. Draco notes absently that he himself is fully hard now. “Or maybe the flogger is too gentle for you. Is that it? You need more? Maybe I should have picked the paddle, darling, and smacked you until those pretty eyes filled up with tears. Would that be better? There’s still time, you know. Or maybe we try something new—you look so good with red welts all over your arse, maybe this time I get out the cane and beat you until you’re—”

“ _Hinkypunk!_ ” Harry cries out, and Draco instantly pulls his hand back and drops the flogger, letting it clatter to the ground, hoping the sound reassures Harry that the danger is over. “Sorry, I’m sorry, Sir, I’m sorry…”

 _Shit,_ Draco thinks, taking a deep breath and shaking his head to pull himself back to earth, then stepping over and tapping on all four of the restraints, setting Harry free as quickly as he can. “Harry, can I touch you?”

Harry shivers and shakes his head, standing up straight and wrapping his arms around himself. “Sorry, I’m sorry, I’m _sorry,_ Sir, I didn’t mean—”

“You’re alright,” Draco soothes, stepping closer but carefully not touching. “Harry, can I get you some water? Come on, can you make it to the bed? Careful, now, take your time—how badly are you hurting?”

Harry’s teeth are chattering as they make their way slowly to the couch, Draco hovering in case he stumbles. “Not—doesn’t hurt, it’s ok. I’m so cold, and I’m thirsty.”

“Alright,” Draco says, Charming the ambient temperature up another few degrees. Once Harry flops face-first onto the large, comfortable bed Draco set up in here once they realized how often Harry needs a nap after, Draco spells blankets on top of him, then Summons a glass and fills it with water, sending it to float near one of Harry’s hands.

He watches carefully as Harry slowly sips his drink, running over the last few minutes of the scene in an effort to figure out where he went wrong. As he’s thinking, he notices that Harry’s face is wet with tears. _Fuck, fuck._ “Harry, how are you feeling, darling? Can I touch you now?”

Harry gulps the remainder of the water and holds his glass out; Draco takes it and Vanishes it with barely a thought. “Please can you hold me,” he says, and his voice is so small, Draco’s heart hurts.

“Of course, love.” Draco climbs onto the bed and sits up against the headboard, opening his arms and letting Harry crawl into them, resting his head on Draco’s chest and pressing himself against Draco’s side. He drags the blankets over them and hides his face as he cries and Draco carefully rubs down his arm.

His mind is whirling, but he focuses on Harry, pleased when slowly his body stops shaking so much and the tears lessen. “Harry, are you ready to talk?”

“I’m _sorry,_ ” Harry bursts out, burying his head into Draco’s shoulder. “Draco, I’m sorry, I messed up, I didn’t mean—”

“Shh, you’re alright,” Draco soothes, holding Harry closer. “You don’t need to apologize. Everything is okay. You have that word for a reason. Can you tell me why you needed to use it, though? I want to make sure I understand.”

Harry’s quiet for a minute, and Draco resumes stroking him. “It was…” He hesitates, and Draco makes an encouraging sound. “It was the. The Dursleys. My uncle...he had. When he was angry, he used to—there was a tree out back, and—” He stops talking, and takes in a breath like he’s about to burst into fresh sobs, but Draco understands what’s happened now, and he forces himself to pack away the white-hot ball of rage that erupts in his stomach until Harry’s been taken care of.

“It’s alright, Harry, you don’t need to keep going if you don’t want to. We can talk more about it later if you’d like, but I promise you, I won’t _ever_ do that to you. Not ever. Okay?”

Harry nods and pulls the blanket down from his face a bit. His cheeks are red and his eyes are swollen, but he’s lost that wild-eyed stare from before the scene, and his tears have stopped, and the lines on his forehead are gone. “I’m sorry,” he mumbles, snuggling closer.

Draco’s heart breaks just a little bit more. “You don’t need to be,” he says, as firmly as he dares. “Do you want to take a nap? Or would you rather go back upstairs, maybe get something to eat?”

Harry scrunches his face up in a frown, and Draco can’t help but drop a kiss onto his nose. Merlin, he can be adorable when he wants to be. “Umm...I think, can we just lie here for a while, and then go upstairs? I’m not...I don’t think I want to fall asleep right now.”

Draco rearranges them so he can get one of his hands in Harry’s hair, tugging gently at the strands the way he knows Harry likes. “Yes, of course we can. You just tell me when you’re ready, and I’ll get your clothes, and we’ll go look at what I’ve got in the kitchen, okay? Whatever you need.”

“ ‘Kay,” Harry says, closing his eyes a little as he relaxes further. His body is mostly on top of Draco now, and he’s heavy, and his cock is still somewhat hard, but for the first time since he came home from work today, Harry seems calm and at peace, so Draco just shifts a bit to keep his legs from going numb and holds him.

**Author's Note:**

> this fic's tumblr post is [here](https://bonesliketambourines.tumblr.com/post/630989870052016128/kinktober-day-3-in-your-arms).


End file.
